


Witching Hours

by Jess_B_Fossil



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sylvain, Bottom Sylvain Jose Gautier, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Time Skip, Praise Kink, Smut, Top Felix Hugo Fraldarius, mild foot action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23659135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_B_Fossil/pseuds/Jess_B_Fossil
Summary: “Must be the witching hours,” Felix murmurs, and the hand in Sylvian’s hair scratches at his scalp lightly, before tugging at his wild locks. “For me to ever be drawn to you; for me to even want to entertain this.” His other hand slides up Sylvain’s chest, hand dipping into the open collar of his linen shirt, seeking out his warm and flushed skin.“Must be,” Sylvain says, catching hold of Felix’s stray hand, pulling it away.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 14
Kudos: 162





	Witching Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Natendo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natendo/gifts).



> Nat thinks I've been writing something else forever, but surprise: Have some porn with feels, while I fulfill my role in the Bottom Sylvain Agenda.
> 
> Nat, I know that things aren't great for you or me at the moment, but I love you dearly okay. I hope this makes you feel better. <3

_**Witching Hours** _

It’s three in the morning and the night burns dark with a violent purple hue.

Felix stands on the balcony, overlooking the tired and frozen landscape, heavy quilt wrapped around his shoulders like an iron weight. His hair hangs limply around his face, tickling his neck, but he’s too lazy to tie it back. Exhaustion seeps through him, deep and bone-weary, but it’s a welcome respite in the aftermath of years spent at war. 

Even with the war gone and past though, there’s a new fight at hand, one that involves dancing around new politics, and grim-faced adults that never got to fully enjoy their adolescence. 

It’s worse here, in the North. Felix knows this; it’s why he wants to be anywhere but  _ here _ , but his heart has different plans, because Goddess above, he’s found himself stuck at the Gautier stronghold for longer than he ever anticipated. Well,  _ stuck _ is a strong word, because he’s the one that refuses to leave.

Felix knows that Sylvain can’t deal with Sreng alone; he’d wind up dead before he’s barely crossed the border, because he’s never cautious and throws his entire being into things. It’s always been aggravating, dealing with Sylvain’s lack of self-preservation, but… it’s also something that Felix truly understands.

There’s a shuffle from behind him and the soft patter of footsteps across the cold tile. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Sylvain murmurs into the space behind Felix’s ear, lips pressing there as he tucks his body close. Sylvain’s arms slip around him, hands creeping into the quilt to press warm fingers against Felix’s cold skin. It’s a cruel mockery of the heat that they’d shared before, and Felix much,  _ much _ prefers soft touches and slick skin pressing together in the sanctity of their bed. 

Not that he’d ever admit that aloud. 

“Can’t sleep,” Felix murmurs, knowing that he won’t be able to hide anything from him. He’s always been a bad liar, but it’s worse with Sylvain, because Sylvain is the one man that can read him like a book. Even if there are no words gracing the pages. Felix sighs before opening an arm.

Sylvain slips around his side, nestling under the quilt as he takes the corner and wraps it around his own shoulder. “Worried about Sreng?” Sylvain asks. 

“Worried about you,” Felix corrects. He hates it, that little crinkle that Sylvain gets across his brow when he thinks he’s not worth the concern. But Felix isn’t in the mood to fight him over it, preferring to lean closer to his side, Sylvain’s arm tight around his shoulders. 

“Nothing to worry about, darling,” Sylvain says, pressing a kiss against Felix’s forehead. 

“I’m not your darling,” he hisses in protest, but Sylvain only chuckles, lips lingering against his skin, searing hot in comparison to the bitter air. 

“You were a few hours ago.” 

Felix hates how his core heats up and he hates how he craves more, only hours later, but it’s based on an inherent need, this urge to just lose himself in Sylvain because--

“I’ll be fine,” Sylvain whispers into his hair, and Felix grips the balcony railing tightly until his fingers turn white and the cold burns them. “I won’t be gone long.”

Felix only keeps a drawer and half of the closet, but everyone knows that he lives here and that it’s not changing anytime soon. At the same time, the last time Sylvain had told him  _ it won’t be long _ , it’d been three months and he’d arrived on their doorstep half dead from infection. 

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for granted,” Felix says, and there’s a little edge to his tone and a little worry.

Sylvain is quiet for a long moment. “Felix, it’s--”

“I know what I signed up for, you fool,” Felix interrupts. And he does, he  _ does _ . When it comes to being with Sylvain, you get to deal with the more annoying parts of his personality, which includes his propensity to put himself in harm’s way. 

Sylvain’s hand finds his cheek, fingertips kissed by frost. “Fe,” he says, forcing Felix to meet his gaze. It’s unfair, how his molten copper eyes can melt his core with a mere look, or how his heart flutters at the way Sylvain’s thumb ghosts the ridge of his bottom lip.

Felix sighs, and it’s not in bitterness, it’s with resignation. And it’s not giving up-- not really- but Felix is tired and cold and he really doesn’t want to argue about something like this, the night before Sylvain sets out. So instead he says, “Don’t do anything rash.”

“If I didn’t, then who would I be?” Sylvain means it as a joke, but Felix can’t hide the way that his mouth twists downward and-- “A joke,” Sylvain says, trying to fix it. He’s always trying to fix things that aren’t really his fault; another fault of his. 

“Just-- just don’t be reckless, you dolt.”

Sylvain hums at that, turning to stand behind him under the heavy blanket, pressing his chin on the crown of Felix’s head as they look out. “I don’t like it either,” he confesses, “but someone has to guard the north.”

Felix  _harrumphs_ quietly, and then, “I just want you to come back home in one piece, not broken and bleeding across our doorstep.” He can feel Sylvain’s lips curve into a smile against his scalp. “Sylvain,” he warns, turning around in his arms to level him with a narrow-slit glare, “I mean it. Come back to me.”

“Felix, do you think that I won’t?”

“I don’t want to hear anything of dumb promises,” Felix says. “I just--” He can’t look at him, at his tender smile so full of love, so he closes his eyes with a groan. “There isn’t much that I fear. There isn’t much that I care about, but Goddess above Sylvain--”

“I get it, you love me. I love you too.”

Felix opens eyes once more and Sylvain is looking at him differently, arms rubbing down Felix’s arms as his gaze turns lazy and lustful. He parts Felix’s legs with a knee and the heat within him pools south with anticipation. Felix reaches up to tug at Sylvain’s hair harshly, halting him,  _ warning _ him. 

Sylvain’s lips curve into a sinful smirk, one hand smoothing over Felix’s sharp hip bone before dropping to his thigh, rucking up his shirt to rub at the skin there. 

“Insatiable,” Felix says, voice a harsh whisper, his heart beating a staccato that he feels pulsing in his throat. 

“Oh? Me?” Sylvain dips lower, lips pausing just before Felix’s, their breathing mingling. “I could have sworn that was you.”

“Must be the witching hours,” Felix murmurs, and the hand in Sylvian’s hair scratches at his scalp lightly, before tugging at his wild locks. “For me to ever be drawn to you; for me to even  _ want _ to entertain this.” His other hand slides up Sylvain’s chest, hand dipping into the open collar of his linen shirt, seeking out his warm and flushed skin. 

“Must be,” Sylvain says, catching hold of Felix’s stray hand, pulling it away. Felix frowns, but then Sylvain drops to his knees and he’s not frowning anymore, not when Sylvain presses him against the balcony, quilt cascading around them in a warm puddle. Felix is wearing an old shirt pilfered from Sylvain, long enough that it ghosts the top of his thighs. 

“But are you a witch?” Sylvian murmurs, hand sliding up the long expanse of Felix’s leg. He brushes the shirt hem aside, nosing at the skin near his hip. “Am I under a spell?”

“This is no spell,” Felix says. He’s already hard and wanting and Sylvain pulls back to look at him, eyes bright with desire and greediness. Felix grips Sylvain’s hair tighter at the side, ushering his face closer and--

Sylvain presses a kiss to the base of his cock, spreading Felix’s legs wider so he can have better access. Felix keens into his touch, into the wet and slick warmth of Sylvain’s mouth, lips tight around the tip of his length.

“Truly voracious,” Felix sighs, watching him, one hand gripping onto Sylvain’s hair firmly as the other brushes through tangled red waves adoringly. “Unquenchable and ravenous. I believe that you are the witch here, Sylvain.”

Sylvain hums around him, a trilling deep in his throat and Felix wants to sink into him further. He cradles Sylvain’s face with reverence, taking in the flush of his cheeks, the shiny glisten of spit slick lips and the greedy look in his eyes. Felix doesn’t want him to go, to leave for Sreng, to put himself at risk. He’d rather him stay, locked in their bedroom as they lose themselves in each other over and over and over--

Sylvain swallows him down properly, all the way, nose brushing against his groin, throat tight and wet and perfectly warm. “Yes--  _ yes _ ,” Felix hisses and Sylvain looks up, eyes watering slightly from the strain. “So good for me,” Felix praises. 

Sylvain retreats, tongue swirling around his cock, hand pumping where his lips aren’t, fingers slick and tight, touch absolute perfection, because there’s no one that knows him like this. Beautiful auburn hair, soft under Felix’s finger tips. The sight of Sylvain is overwhelming. 

Felix moves a sinuous leg, pressing against the meat of Sylvain’s thigh. The tile digs painfully into his knees, Felix is sure, but he widens his stance enough for Felix to drag cold toes across the soft linen of Sylvain’s pants. And the hardness tenting them. 

“Oh,” Felix breathes, lips curling around the word with cruel intent as the ball of his foot presses down the slightest bit. There’s barely any pressure, just enough for Felix to feel Sylvain’s arousal, but he whimpers pathetically around his cock. 

Sylvain pulls off of him, nuzzling along his length, lips tracing the vein there. “Fe,” he murmurs, suckling at the skin where his thigh meets his cock, intent on leaving a mark there, but Felix pulls his head back gently. His foot rubs along the underside of Sylvain’s clothed cock. “ _ Fe,” _ Sylvain croaks and it’s enough to stop the teasing, as much as Felix loves him on his knees and begging. 

Felix lets go of his hair. “Bed,” he says softly, gathering up the quilt and leading him back into their room proper. 

The mattress is soft and supple as they sink into it, but he prefers Sylvain’s skin, tanned and freckled like it was made for him. The sheets are a mess from their earlier romp, Felix kicking them out of the way as Sylvain settles on his back and--

“I want to see you,” Sylvain blurts suddenly. Felix leans over him, hair falling in a long curtain of midnight black, hands sliding over toned abs and muscular thighs. Sylvain’s chest heaving, skin flushed and face wanton and pink with anticipation. Felix wants; he  _ wants _ with a visceral need, and it blooms in his chest, burning and longing. 

“Witching hours, indeed,” he whispers, leaning over to kiss Sylvain’s neck. “It’s the only explanation for how much I crave you.” It’s not; there’s more to it and Sylvain knows that, but the teasing provokes a reaction that placates Felix in a way that he can’t describe. 

Sylvain sighs at the words, reaching up to grasp at Felix’s hair, fingers carding through it before they move to massage at his scalp. Then he pulls him closer, a silent plea and Felix complies, hand mapping the length of his body before circling around the base of Sylvain’s cock.

“Not yet, darling.” Felix breathes the pet name as a tease, fingers touching everywhere else, and Sylvain grinds his hips closer, trying to find some sort of friction. Felix pulls back cruelly.

“Fe,” Sylvain whines, “Fe--  _ oh _ .”

Sylvain’s still loose from their evening romp, hole soft and pliant as Felix prods gently at his rim. Then he sits back, fingers dipping into the oil bottle beside the bed, still uncorked from earlier, before settling back over Sylvain. His finger slips into the tight heat easily. Quickly followed by a second. He spreads them gently, dragging against Sylvain’s insides with careful calculation as Felix searches for-- 

_ “Goddess above,” _ Sylvain hisses, but it’s not in pain, it’s from want, hips jerking, trying to press harder against Felix’s hand.  _ There _ , searching for there, the spot that never fails to undo Sylvain with the slightest of touches. 

“It’s never enough,” Felix says to him, wrapping his free hand around Sylvain’s length, stroking it loosely, as the other presses deeper into him. “Never enough,” he repeats, “Watching you like this. I could for hours, days, weeks. We’d never leave the bedsheets.” He pauses, humming in consideration. “How about another, one more finger pressed deep--”

“Fe,  _ please _ ,” Sylvain begs, punching out the words with a moan, hips trying to rise against Felix’s hand. Felix knows that tone. Sylvain doesn’t want another finger, he doesn’t want to drag this out, and Felix loves it, he loves this, him and his utter desperation. 

Felix lets go, removing his fingers gently before dipping them into the oil once more. Felix strokes his own cock, slicking it up as he kneels above Sylvain, who looks back at him in a foggy haze of adoration, eyes half-lidded. Waiting patiently.

“Good, my darling,” Felix croons, pulling him closer and spreading his legs to fold them over his hips. “So good for me.”

Pressing into Sylvain is like finding home, Felix thinks. Hot and tight, perfectly stretched around him, Sylvain’s head thrown back, fingers white knuckled around the bed sheets as he practically sobs at the feel of it. “Perfect,” Felix says. “Bewitching. Surely this is a spell,” he teases, pulling out before snapping his hips back in. 

Sylvain is always loud in bed, but in the best of ways, crooning moans and sobs of his name. Felix relishes it, relishes the way that his body bends around him and to his will, like putty in his hands. Sylvain responds so eagerly and it fuels his ego. Felix sets an easy pace, lazy almost, pulling out and pressing back in, hips pausing to grind in a circle and--

“ _ Fuck--” _ Sylvain gasps and Felix halts suddenly. “No,  _ no, no, _ why did you stop--”

“Sylvain, look at me,” Felix asks, and Sylvain does. His eyes are a bleary and unfocused mess and Felix leans over, reaching down to take his face in his hands, pressing a kiss there, passionate as he licks into his mouth. Sylvain seems surprised, because Felix is rarely like this, rarely so vocal and obvious about his affection, preferring the less is more method but-- 

“Sylvain,” Felix says quietly, their lips ghosting each other, “you will come back to me.”

Sylvain nods, but Felix grips his chin harder. “Say it--”

“I’ll come back,” Sylvain bites out. Felix grinds his hips forward again, circling around and the moan that let’s lose from Sylvain is worth it, everything is worth it. “I’ll always--  _ oh Felix _ \-- I’ll always come home to you.”

Felix thrusts eagerly into his heat, and Sylvain all but sobs underneath him, legs tight around him as he tries to match his movements. “I promise, I’ll-- You know that I keep my promises Fe.”

He does, Sylvain always has, despite everything they’ve been through. Felix hikes Sylvain’s legs higher as he presses deeper, his pace quickening as his thrusts become uneven. Sylvain’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulling Felix closer and though the position is awkward, he complies. 

Felix loves this man, he loves Sylvain and his tight heat, and the stupid way that he smiles at him, or the dumb leers when he thinks he’s not being watched. Felix must hit the right spot, the  _ perfect _ spot, because Sylvain practically howls underneath him, trying desperately to rut against him to keep him there.

Felix tumbles over the edge embarrassingly quick and without warning, white waves of pleasure crashing over him, nerves alight and on fire. And then there’s Sylvain, underneath him, his hand slipping between them to grasp his own length, pumping it furiously as he tries to chase Felix into the deafening sunrise. 

Felix’s face is pressed into the crook of his neck, pressing gentle kisses there, sucking at his skin lightly, murmuring things like  _ Sylvain _ and  _ darling _ and other words that will never leave their bed. Finally, Sylvain comes messily into his hand, crying out Felix’s name hoarsely.

The room is filled with their ragged breaths. Felix pulls back slightly, still leaning over as he brushes sweaty bangs away from Sylvain’s forehead and then--

“This was probably a bad idea, seeing as I’m supposed to be riding a horse for the next week.”

Felix doesn’t laugh, but he smiles at him and the way that Sylvain’s face lights up is worth more than anything in his life. He hushes him, kissing his forehead before carefully pulling out. Sylvain groans, but it’s from the satisfaction of what they’ve done, legs all but jelly as he lays in the middle of the mattress in a puddle.

Felix cleans him up silently. And then he tucks into bed, Sylvain nestled into his side, cheek resting gently against his breastbone, Felix’s fingers combing through his hair idly. 

What seems like eons later, Sylvian finally says something. “I know that you’re worried--”

“Sylvain--”

“But I mean the promise, Felix. I’ll always come back to you.”

Felix huffs. “Better not be in a pine box.”

Sylvain laughs lightly against his skin, before smiling, tongue sneaking out to lick a stripe across Felix’s nipple, and he bristles. “You couldn’t do that  _ before _ ?” But he’s not really annoyed, not with Sylvain settled against him in the warm and soft afterglow of love making. Domestic and comfortable, words that normally appall Felix.

“I know you will,” Felix says, murmuring it against his forehead. And then later, when he’s certain Sylvain is mostly asleep-- “I love you.”

Sylvain doesn’t stir and Felix lays in their bed, thinking. 

Felix had once thought he’d never come home to anything, let alone be the one waiting for another. It’s a curse or a spell, but Sylvain is a welcome warlock to cast it over him. Until then… He sinks into the soft warmth of their bed, and into Sylvain’s arms, who sleepily readjusts to accommodate him. 

This is how he’ll spend the witching hours, utterly and hopelessly in love. Wanting and waiting. 

It’s not a bad thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? A burning need for answers? Have a story idea? Just want to talk Sylvix? Don't forget to check out my [Tumblr](https://missmarquin.tumblr.com/), and drop an ask!
> 
> Also, follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/BaldFossil)


End file.
